Melancholic 3

Part 3: Melancholia

Pitter patter.

Away at my laptop.

Not noticing anything around me.

Except the noise.

The coughing.

The stool-squeaking.

The lack of headphones on my part.

Everything is making my head explode.

There is so much noise and so little that it is completely unbearable.

Why is a coffee shop so loud?

Why is everything making me so hot and so dizzy and so unwell?

A girl continues to speak and speak and speak.

And all I want to do is wring her neck.

My anti-depressants are fucking with my body.

Again.

My libido has sky-rocketed.

However, my irritability seems to be under control.

I haven’t murdered any of the incessantly noisy coffee-shop-goers.

Yet.

But I am strangely comforted by this anger.

This loathing for other people.

It’s like I still have a grasp of who I was.

And who these meds are making me.

Am I this happy—happier person who has emerged?

Or am I the sad girl?

The one being forgotten?

The one being replaced?

The one who needs meds to be happy?

Who knows, really.

I barely know.

I’m sitting at J&B.

No coffee from here today.

No barfing.

Ellie hasn’t spoken to me in God knows how long.

Carrie and I haven’t spoken to each other in less time, but still a long time.

But I am surprisingly better than I was when I first began this diary.

A diary.

That’s what this is.

Like Anne Frank’s, but less extreme.

I’m an eighteen-year old, twenty-first-century girl with melancholic depression.

She was a child.

Her people were being teargassed.

Slaughtered.

It was genocide.

My life is just subpar.

Unlike potatoes.

I made a reference to myself as a potato today.

I’ve made a new best friend.

Her name is Nancy.

She is tall.

She and I are very similar.

I like her a lot.

We smoke together.

We drink together.

We vape together.

We do so much together.

I miss her when we aren’t together.

I hope I don’t lose her too.

I found my earbuds.

J&B is still very noisy.

I can hear the loud patrons all around me.

Lea Michelle’s “Run Joey Run” plays in my ears.

Doing nothing to block out the ruckus.

Chairs scraping and clanking on the floor is louder than I realized.

I think I’d prefer the screaming of pubescent girls at a boy band concert.

The janitor’s keys clink and jingle and clank and ring as he walks.

Back.

And forth.

Moving chairs.

Scraping chairs.

Moving tables.

Plonking them down.

Scraping tables.

Clink.

Jingle.

Clank.

Ring.

I’m going to stab him with every one of those keys.

I haven’t been this aggressive in a little while.

At least not towards janitors.

Just the clanking of the keys.

The clink.

Clink.

Clink.

I am going to clink clink clink him.

But other than that, everything is going well.

“Jesse’s Girl” calms me as I type about the stupid keys.

I feel better.

The music is louder now.

I guess it does soothe the beast inside us all.

But the beast.

What about the beast does it soothe?

The temper?

The mood swings?

The sadness?

The ferocious ferocity that lives inside each of us?

Who knows.

But I digress.

The beast is soothed.

And the only thing bubbling up inside of me is gas from the two cappuccinos I had this morning.

Which is a beast of its own.

I have a beast inside me.

Not the gas one.

A different one.

She is beautiful.

Hideous.

Kind.

Cruel.

Amazing.

Worthless.

Welcoming.

Terrifying.

She is me.

I am the beast.

Inside and out.

I am physically aesthetically pleasing.

I am emotionally ruined and heinous.

I am kind to strangers.

I am cruel to my mother.

I have an amazing personality.

I am worthless.

I welcome the worst things.

I am terrifying.

I am the beast.

Sometimes she scares me.

You know.

The beast.

I scare myself I guess.